


Variables

by rayvanfox



Series: Parent?lock [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-08 19:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayvanfox/pseuds/rayvanfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It smelled different. And yes, after three years of traveling around the world, experiencing so many different places and people, having to get along in a plethora of different cultures, eating different foods, speaking different languages, being intimately acquainted with more oddities than most people encounter in a lifetime, one could imagine he might be mistaken. But he wasn’t. </p><p>The scents that were disconcertingly different were those of the flat. 221b. Even through the windows on the fire escape he could tell that changes had been afoot. Of course the chemical and decompositional smells had been eradicated, that was a given. But even John’s familiar combination of musk, leather, and wool was compromised by something both saccharine and sharp. And maybe even a floral note...?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A

It smelled different. And yes, after three years of traveling around the world, experiencing so many different places and people, having to get along in a plethora of different cultures, eating different foods, speaking different languages, being intimately acquainted with more oddities than most people encounter in a lifetime, one could imagine he might be mistaken. But he wasn’t. All of that meant nothing upon returning. Because London, and especially his corner of it (his and John’s), was easier to return to than bicycling, more familiar than the back of his hand. It didn’t matter that he’d spent such a minimal time in his own city and had clearly avoided going anywhere near the flat for obvious reasons, coming home was like slipping back into his own skin. One that he had, consciously or no, shed at the conclusion of a phone conversation held on a roof three years, five months, two weeks, and four and a half days ago. 

So yes, your calculations are correct, it was at that moment an early morning on a beautiful October day. The short walk from Marylebone Station was brisk and dry. There was a crispness to the air, colored by the decay of the changing leaves and withered flowers from earlier wet weather, and tinted with brewing coffee and baking pastries from the cafes preparing to open. All of these smells were familiar and comforting. Even the acrid alley behind the corner pub, where its denizens went to have a slash when the queue for the loo was long, reminded him of home.   
The scents that were disconcertingly different were those of the flat. 221b. Even through the windows on the fire escape he could tell that changes had been afoot. Of course the chemical and decompositional smells had been eradicated, that was a given. But even John’s familiar combination of musk, leather, and wool was compromised by something both saccharine and sharp. And maybe even a floral note. 

_What on earth has he got going on in there? Oh Lord, I pray it’s not another girlfriend..._

A quick reconnaissance determined that the upstairs room was empty, but he dismissed it as a point of entry because he’d rigged the window frame of his own room when they’d first moved in so that it was easy to open from the outside. Besides, his cat burglaring skills had been honed over the last year and John had always been a somewhat heavy sleeper. 

_Let’s hope his date is, as well._ He couldn’t help but accompany that thought with a healthy eyeroll.   
He cracked the window open soundlessly and, with one careful finger, moved the drapes apart slightly. The bed was empty, the covers (and a pillow) heaped on one side (the close side, the side he himself used to sleep on). It was clear only one person had slept there. 

But this was earlier than John usually woke. _Used to wake. Who knows what his habits are now._ He opened the window further and put his face inside to ascertain whether the flat was empty or no. It smelled like coffee had been made recently, but, as it was quiet without being utterly still, it was unclear if the drinker was still home. He stepped in over the sill and thought he heard movement in the other room. If John was out there, was this the wisest course of action for revealing himself? Just stepping out into the parlour? _Should I go back down to the front door and knock like a normal person? Maybe now isn’t the time._

His curiosity was getting the better of him, however, he could not simply walk out without attempting to catch a glimpse of his friend. His best friend. His only friend. The past three years had not only failed to diminish John’s importance in his life, but had actually made it grow. There had been not a soul on the planet that he’d become as attached to as he had his erstwhile flatmate. Granted, he hadn’t given anyone else even half the chance he had allowed John, but that seemed beside the point at this juncture. He had waited three years (5mos, 2wks, 4.5ds) for this. 

It wasn’t a matter of sentiment, it was his logical, scientific belief in eyewitness. Mycroft had refused to tell him anything more than whether John was alive and still in London the entire time he was gone, but that information had become an anchor for him. A tether to home that kept him committed to his purpose, in order to return as soon as was feasible. The time had come at last, and at the moment, nothing else mattered. 

Without his really being aware, before he could parse out how, despite his inability to understand why, John had become his definition of home. Being inside the flat, even in his own room, was nothing compared to seeing John Watson’s face. To witness with his own eyes that he was all right. And that John was still his friend (hopefully even his flatmate again). He was surprised to find how strong this desire was inside him, but after a moment’s analysis, understood it to be an honest truth. 

_So be it. I only hope John will forgive me quickly and allow me to come home. Because trying to start a life anywhere else would be unconscionable._

He tiptoed to the door, sidestepping the creaky board near the bed, and crept down the hallway to the parlour, peeking in the kitchen momentarily to assess whether breakfast had been made (only the aforementioned coffee, and juice?). There was a low murmur coming from the main room. _Is the telly on with the volume down? At this time of day?_

He paused momentarily to prepare himself for either joy or disappointment, building up the courage to turn the fantasy into a reality. He had thought about this for a long time. He’d kept himself from looking forward to it until it was feasible, kept from imagining it until he was on the train to London, kept his heart rate reasonable until that moment. But here it was (unless John wasn’t actually sitting on the sofa, as he’d deduced).

He took a very slow, deep breath and silently lowered himself until he was flat on the floor, then he ever so slightly poked his head around the door frame to get a view of the far corner of the room.

It was a good thing he was already on the floor, or he would have dropped to it with shock. John was in a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, stretched out and dozing on the sofa, with a small child asleep on his chest, nestled under his unshaven chin. His left hand was protectively resting on the little back, and his breath was stirring the dark curls. The little one was wearing only a white t-shirt and a diaper and it’s face was turned away. There was nothing visible to indicated its gender. Its age, on the other hand, was fathomable. It must have been able to walk but was not yet old enough to be in preschool. He wasn’t particularly good at figuring out children’s ages, but this one looked solidly in toddler territory. Most likely, less than three years old. Which means...

_Bloody Hell. How long did he wait to find someone? Not long, it seems.  
But the child doesn’t look like him at all. It can’t be his, can it? _

Sherlock turned his head away from the sight and for the first time looked around the parlour. There was a pack-n-play with a blanket and a stuffed tiger inside. There were blocks and trains and plastic toys strewn about the floor. There was a booster chair strapped to his own desk chair (Not his anymore, no claim to it now). This child clearly lived here with John, at least part of the time, if not all of it. His gaze frantically searched for any sign of the child’s mother (was that the source of the floral scent?) but saw nothing save a framed photograph on the mantle of a tall, dark-haired woman with John and an infant in a brown hoodie with bear ears affixed to it.

_But where is she? Already at work? On a trip? Has she left him?_

He moved quickly back through the kitchen, then down the hall to the bathroom and bedroom, searching for any trace of a feminine presence. He found a scented candle in the former and a vial of perfume in the latter. One dress in the closet. No shoes, no handbags, no other accoutrements. 

_He must have moved out to marry her and back in after she was out of the picture, or he’d have more of her stuff here. So they didn’t live here together, then. Thank God. The idea of her sleeping in my bed...  
Breathe. Observe. Assess. Deduce._

There was a small jewelry box on the dresser, inside, a woman’s wedding ring. _Dead, then. She didn’t leave him. Good._

He was about to head back to the parlour to take another look at the sleeping form of John, the father, the widower, to attempt a reordering of John in his psyche, to try to find a way of categorising him as he had become, not as he once was, when he heard the fourth step squeak. Only John and himself skipped that step, so it didn’t help him deduce the visitor, except for the fact that he hadn’t heard the street door open. _Mrs. Hudson, then._ That clinches it. If John still had a wife, Mrs. Hudson would feel as though she were intruding, coming upstairs at this hour in the morning, even with a little one to take care of. Furthermore, if Mrs. Hudson is taking part in the care of the child, it is definite that there is currently no woman of any kind in John’s life. 

However, if she was about to wake up those two asleep on the sofa, it was high time for him to leave before he was discovered. He scanned the room to make sure it looked as much like it did when he arrived as possible, just as her characteristic ‘hoo-hoo, boys...’ sounded down the hall. He strained for just a moment to hear John’s sleepy ‘oh, hello’ then snuck out the window and down the fire escape. 

_Why is it so early? Why isn’t a pub open at this hour? I need to sit with a double whisky and think. I guess I could attempt caffeine toxicity instead..._

He hadn’t the patience for either option, so he hurried down the street to Dorset Square, bounded over the fence, and dropped into the garden. He made for the bench half-covered by a holly hedge and sat with his knees tucked up under his chin, his hands clasped round his shins, and delved deep into thought. 

_It’s a boy._


	2. +

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing could keep his attention like the image of John and his child. It wouldn’t leave his mind’s eye. He had deduced the fuck out of it and still felt like there was something to learn.  
> Time for further investigation.

For the next three days he wandered around London, paying attention to every part of his previous life there that had nothing to do with John Watson. Well, almost nothing. He spied on Mycroft (back to dieting, stressed about North Korea), checked in on Molly (now supervisor of the mortuary, possibly has a boyfriend), even tailed Lestrade for an entire afternoon and evening (finally divorced his wife and is definitely seeing someone new).

Nothing could keep his attention like the image of John and his child. It wouldn’t leave his mind’s eye. He had deduced the fuck out of it and still felt like there was something to learn. John showed signs of a recent complete breakdown (he’d seen this before, as it took him a good couple weeks to leave London after The Fall and he’d been unable to keep himself from haunting Baker St.), so it had to have been less than a year since the woman’s death. The wife. They’d been married, he still wore his ring. The child was well loved but not spoiled, though John was inclined to be indulgent when he wasn’t doing well. Mrs. Hudson took care of the child, the boy (it was a boy, John had a boy), when John went to work, but most likely not everyday. 

John quite possibly only worked part time, as he had made sure to provide generously for his flatmate in his will, which Mycroft had executed to the letter. John was not struggling monetarily, of this he was sure. It was the only other thing he’d asked Mycroft to do regarding John while he was away. If John needed money, he had made Mycroft promise to find a way of getting it to him. Every payment from a case he’d received on his travels, he’d set aside part of for John. And Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft had set up a stipend for her as well, on top of the money he’d left in his will for her to pay off the mortgage on 221 (it was a somewhat selfish gift, that. He’d wanted her to not have to rely on lodgers in the hopes that were he to come back, he would be able to take up residence there once again. Preferably with John. Who he’d wanted to never leave 221b, but knew that was asking a lot).

He had also left a hefty sum to the primary alias he had been living under since then. ‘A distant, cash-strapped cousin,’ Mycroft had told John at the time, then dismissed any requests for information on James Trevor, saying it was best not to embarrass him. ‘And besides, he lived on the continent and had vowed never to return home to England’. 

He had been tempted many times over the past few years to get in contact with John via this alias, but had never succumbed to the temptation, knowing his work was risky enough that even linking James to John was looking for trouble. Like every non-case related decision for the past five years, the one that kept John safest was the choice he would make. 

Anyway, John’s boy. Where did he sleep? In the playpen in the parlour? Not at night, surely. In bed with John? Possibly. It was highly unlikely that his room was upstairs if John’s was downstairs, that’s too far in the middle of the night. Which meant the upstairs room was largely unused...

_Time for further investigation._

It was early afternoon when he arrived at the flat (via fire escape, of course) and again his bedroom (not his, it was John’s now) was empty. He continued up to the top floor window, anticipating the lock and working out a solution. He was surprised to find the window opened about four inches and the curtains pushed aside. He snaked his way closer, keeping out of sight, unsure of what he would encounter. He could hear that the room was occupied. The merest glimpse revealed the sole occupant to be John. He was sitting at a desk, positioned three quarters away from the window, working at his laptop. Staring at it, more accurately. 

He looked again in order to form a more comprehensive analysis of the task at hand, but it seemed John was clicking between his own blog, (which he hadn’t updated in 3 years, 4 months, and 3 days), a popular news site, and a couple files on his computer, one text, one full of pictures. On the desk were strewn many and sundry papers, notebooks, newspaper clippings, and file folders. John enlarged one of the pictures on the screen and revealed a landscape shot of the moors outside Grimpen. _He is writing about our cases. Or at least about the H. O. U. N. D. case. Which he knows cannot be published. Mycroft expressly forbade much of the information in that case to be made public, and whatever wasn’t banned from print is already on John’s blog. Why is he doing this?_

As he pondered the question he allowed his eyes to roam over the rest of the room. Even if he couldn’t get inside at the moment, there was much to investigate about John’s living arrangements and habits. 

The room was set up as a combination office and storage space. There were bins of old or off-season clothes, boxes of books and papers and photo albums, all neatly labeled and stored on a shelving unit. Next to it was a futon on a frame set up as a sofa, the linens on the top shelf nearby. Then there was the desk, with two framed photos up on the wall by it, one was obviously a wedding photo, the other was one from a newspaper. 

It was from the first time they’d solved a case and the press had wanted to take their photo. John had a hint of an amused smirk around the mouth, but he’d been scowling so hard he looked like he was pouting. _Not the best shot of us, but then, it would have been chosen for sentimental reasons, of course. And come to think of it, there aren’t very many pictures of the two of us together. I only have that one on my phone..._

_...It had been one of the few times John had been able to convince me to leave the flat for something other than a case. We had gone to the Regent’s Park Zoo, of all places. I’d rolled my eyes as much as possible at the choice, but once inside, there was something about the place that inspired a shuffling off of dignity and distance, and caused a flood of enthusiasm for the subjects to flow through me._

_From a child, I had been interested in anatomy, and as a young one, that interest had taken the form of animals as well as people. Therefore the zoo, that particular zoo, had been a spot I'd frequented for research purposes. Enough had changed since my youth that my interest was piqued, first over the new enclosures, then over the animal acquisitions. I’d rushed around commenting--muttering, really--over all the changes, deducing the whys and hows and wherefores of each. Finally, as had been my original intent, I’d settled to the point of strolling along with John, raveling out strings of information about each of the creatures we encountered for his edification and amusement. (which ended up being more the latter than the former, but I’d been too engrossed to care.)_

_It had been a surprisingly good day and John couldn’t help but mention that my facial expression had never once gotten close to a frown. Which of course, made me scowl. John had laughed, pulled out his phone and stepped close while tugging at mt sleeve to bring me in for one of those atrocious arm-length, self-taken shots that are ubiquitous with camera phone users worldwide. I had rolled my eyes and made my face blank until John had laughed himself to tears with a photoshoot of his face in progressively more silly expressions, while I'd pulled longer and longer ones, until finally I cracked and just let go. John’s face momentarily went wide-eyed and slack at my giggling visage before him, and then he sprang into action. He took three photos of himself alongside that absurd grin that I couldn’t banish with the phone in his hand, then wrestled the one out of my belstaff coat pocket to take one last shot of the two of us, to “memorialize this moment and remind you that you have a good, real smile”. John had saved it as the phone’s wallpaper before handing it back with a fond wink of his eye. I had never been more flattered in my life..._

A voice from downstairs broke him out of his reverie, and made John jump up from his desk. High pitched and discontent, it knew what it wanted, and John knew how to give it. He was left to stare into an empty room, but all desire to observe and deduce had left him. Just as he was on the verge of deciding whether he would enter via the window or leave down the fire escape, he heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, which revealed John carrying a somewhat sleep-heavy little one. It--he--was whining about something, and John was speaking soothingly into his ear, even rubbing his back and kissing his hair, the dark curls a tousled mess (a familiar state). 

He froze as if glued to the spot, watching as intently as he could, feeling vaguely dizzy. It was such a natural thing. The voice, the caress, the kiss. This was a role John Watson was born to play. How had he never deduced this of him? Why had he not seen ‘father’ written all over his face and shoulders, tattooed onto his arms and sides. He had to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry. It hurt.

John turned away from the window to the computer, bringing the child’s face into view, though all that could be seen were his eyes. Granted, were his whole face visible, all you’d be able to see were his eyes. They were huge, ringed with dark lashes, and shining a bright, clear, steady blue. And they were trained directly at him. He started and ducked, chiding himself for losing focus and leaving himself open to detection like that. 

“Rock?” The voice was pitched high in a question. 

Before losing his view, he’d seen John staring at a photo on the computer screen which had been mostly blocked. However, given the subject of research and the composition of the corner that had been in view, it was most likely a shot of the churchyard in Grimpen. 

“What, love?”

“Rock? Dada, rrock?”

He couldn’t see if the child was pointing to the window, but John’s footsteps didn’t sound. In fact, he didn’t seem to even turn away from the computer.

“Yes, hun. Lock. _Sher_ lock.” 

His heart banged hard, hearing that name. It had been a long time.

“Can you say ‘lock’?”

“Wock?”

“Can you say ‘Sherlock’?”

“Surrock?”

“Close enough. This picture here, this is where Daddy and Sherlock met a big black dog. See? Right here. That was when daddy knew--”

“Doggie?”

“Yes, darlin. A doggie. I don’t have a picture of it though, sorry.” He chuckled and continued under his breath. 

“Though you wouldn’t thank me if I did...”

“Mama?”

“Heh. Yes, there are many pictures of Mummy on here, aren’t there? We can look at only a few though, or Daddy will have to go take a nap. And then who would you play with?”

He risked a tiny peek to see that John and the boy were sitting at the computer looking at photos of them and the woman. The wife. The mother. A tall, pale woman with a long mass of dark curly hair. Celtic? Italian? Not Greek, surely, not with that skin... _I must check the public records and learn her name. The child’s too, for that matter._

“Don’t, love. That hurts Daddy, sweetheart.” The child had turned away from the computer to haul himself to standing on John’s lap and was tugging at his collar and ear to get a look at the window. 

He couldn’t risk watching any longer. He decided at the last moment to run up the fire escape to the roof and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening contemplating the city from that vantage point. 

_‘Hun’, ‘love’, ‘darlin’, ‘sweetheart’, such endearments, John, such sentiment...where did that come from? Or have you always been that way and I’ve just never seen it until now?_

The dry weather only held on as long as the sun, so by dusk the rain had him stealing back down to the upstairs window, hoping John’s habit of dozing in front of the telly after dinner had stood the test of time. Luckily, the office room was empty. He didn’t feel like taking the time to suss out the whereabouts of the key players, all he wanted was to be inside and dry. And maybe to explore what was on the computer. But of course, as he stepped into the room he saw that John’s laptop wasn’t on the desk. Possibly, he was working on it downstairs. Or just surfing for porn... _Does he do that anymore? Does having been a husband and being a father make one change their sexual habits in that way? Probably not a fruitful deductive path to take at the moment..._

He’d taken his shoes off upon entering, so he stepped lightly as possible to the top of the stairs, hoping to hear at what stage their evening was.

“Uuup you go. That’s enough. If you don’t want any more beans, Hamish, you can say ‘all done’ instead of throwing them on the floor. Do you remember the sign for ‘all done’? ...Good, yes. All done.”

“Ah duh.”

“Right. Good. Bath time.” The water started to run in the tub. The child chattered away happily in not-quite-English, John responded with endearment and snide comments to himself.

_Hamish? Really?? I thought he’d been joking when he mentioned it in front of Irene. He_ **was** joking. So why did he...Oh. Right. His army buddy. The bloke he served with throughout his tour in Afghanistan. Also named Hamish. Died in the attack where he injured his shoulder. Please God, tell me this child’s middle name is not Sherlock...  
Hamish. Hame. Ham. Hey, Mish. Hish. Hamey. Ish. For God’s sake, he’s doomed. It’s as bad as Sherly. (If only Mycroft hadn’t been such a twat and ruined the name Lock...though hearing it in John’s voice this afternoon made it somewhat appealing again...)  
Still. I suppose Hamish will have to do. James would have been better. 

He was so lost in thought he almost didn’t recognize the fact that he was hearing music from downstairs. Singing, as a matter of fact. Soft, gentle, low singing, in a warm tenor voice. Singing the song, “Slip Sliding Away” by Paul Simon. Where on earth that song had come from, no one will ever know. But it was already to the bridge, where the lyrics go:

> I know a father who had a son,  
> He longed to tell him all the reasons for the things he’d done.  
> He came a long way just to explain.  
> He kissed his boy as he lay sleeping then he turned around and headed home again.

John’s voice cracked on the last line, and hearing it made him almost yelp in pain. He covered his mouth and listened intently to the last verse, John’s voice getting huskier as it went:

> God only knows. God makes his plan.  
> The information’s unavailable to the mortal man.  
> We work our jobs. Collect our pay.  
> Believe we’re gliding down the highway when in fact we’re slip sliding away.

His chest was getting full, his heart beating loud in his ears as he sat still, trying not to breathe.

The song ended and a minute later came the sound of a small stereo quietly playing classical music. A Bach violin concerto. One he’s played a thousand times. 

_Oh good Lord, I can’t stay here any longer._

He moved as quickly as he could while remaining silent, pulled on his shoes and escaped out the window just in time to hear the steps up to the office start creaking. He flew down the fire escape and hit the ground running. The rain had mostly let up but the streets were streaked with light trails on their reflective surfaces. It felt good to run hard enough to make his chest heave for oxygen instead of being bound by emotion. The drizzly remnants of drops on his face were refreshingly cool. Except for the two or three that were hot.


	3. B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamish clearly enjoyed his freedom without taking advantage of it. He might trot along ahead quite a ways but he would often shout back to his father to get his attention (as if he’d ever lost it, John’s eyes never roved), then run back to tell him something, or give him a present of a leaf or an acorn or a stick. They were constantly in conversation no matter what distance was between them. John used his voice like a leash (not quite the appropriate word, tether?) to let Hamish know when he had gone too far, or to call him back or change direction. Or simply just to engage with him. And Hamish listened. And responded, though not always appropriately. Nevertheless, it was very clear they were attuned to each other.   
> He recognized that sort of interaction and it made his chest tight. And then it made him petulant. Had John really had him on a tether like that?

A couple days later, he found himself haunting Baker street, refusing to climb up to a window but unable to rein in his desire to see them both. Both Watsons. John and Hamish Watson. Husband and son to Mary Watson, nee Morstan (Married February 9 of the previous year). Or, widower and orphan of. (Is he her orphan if he still has John? Irrelevant.) 

It was dry but cold, and standing in doorways was tedious work. So much so that he was tempted to get a cuppa from Speedy’s. He didn’t much frequent the place when he lived at 221b, but he was loath to risk being recognized, especially in this neighborhood. 

Soon they emerged however, and he followed at a distance, focused not on where they were going but how they were getting there. John had carried an umbrella stroller down to the street, slung by a strap over his shoulder, with the child in his arms. He then strapped the boy into the seat and pushed him along the pavement. 

The interesting part of their progress down the road was that John frequently leaned over the back of the stroller and addressed the boy (Hamish, he has a name), pointing things out to him and engaging him in conversation. When they were stopped at a crossing John moved round to the front and crouched down to Hamish’s level to speak to him. It was commendable, if inefficient. They didn’t seem in a hurry to get anywhere, though. Perhaps the journey was the whole point of their outing. 

Or, they weren’t going particularly far. Regent’s Park seemed to be the destination because once they came to a pleasant path that wove its way towards a spur of the boating lake, John released Hamish from the stroller, folded it, and slung it over his shoulder once more. Hamish clearly enjoyed his freedom without taking advantage of it. He might trot along ahead quite a ways but he would often shout back to his father to get his attention (as if he’d ever lost it, John’s eyes never roved), then run back to tell him something, or give him a present of a leaf or an acorn or a stick. They were constantly in conversation no matter what distance was between them. John used his voice like a leash (not quite the appropriate word, tether?) to let Hamish know when he had gone too far, or to call him back or change direction. Or simply just to engage with him. And Hamish listened. And responded, though not always appropriately. Nevertheless, it was very clear they were attuned to each other. 

He recognized that sort of interaction and it made his chest tight. And then it made him petulant. _Had John really had me on a tether like that? Was it as apparent as this was? Did others see our interactions as comparable to this?_ He found himself pouting and self-consciously wiped his hand over his face, hoping to erase both the expression and the thought process that engendered it. 

Without actually thinking about it, he found himself wandering closer to them. It didn’t worry him over much because he was dressed as James Trevor and John was preoccupied. He wasn’t worried he would accidentally attract attention because he looked nothing like his former self. 

Example: he was wearing grey trainers, fading blue jeans, a red t-shirt under a blue hoodie under a chocolate brown corduroy blazer with matching driver’s cap, and glasses. A wardrobe that was nothing like that of his previous life. Much like his hair. As Mr. J. Trevor he had cut and lightened it somewhat. His old school friend, Victor Trevor, whose dead father’s name he’d borrowed, was strawberry blonde. For resemblance’s sake (as well as disguise), he had shorn and bleached his curls, though only to the point of getting them to take on a coppery colour. He’d left off dying them when he started his long trek back home and by now each strand was half dark, half light, as if he had ‘tipped’ his curls, which he had been trying to keep at a more manageable length than before without feeling military. 

At any rate, the (not so) young man leaning against a tree nearby, smoking a cigarette and supposedly staring at the water, looked virtually nothing like John’s old friend and flatmate from years ago. 

_Years ago. True, but deceptive. In some ways it seems only moments. In others, a lifetime. Quite literally, one certain small person’s lifetime._

_Dear Hamish. Can you imagine, will you ever be able to fathom, how dashing and brave your daddy can be? How he used to spend his time being the closest thing to a hero that exists? How just his presence in the room could make me step up my game to peak performance? How his heart, his body, and even his mind were the most invaluable tools a man could have at his side? How many times he saved my life, both on cases when I was hunted by criminals and sitting at home when I was my own worst enemy? No, I dare say you never will be able to understand. Which is a shame. But also, that’s the way it must go. The young never appreciate their elders for what they are until they no longer can be. The day your father first fails you will be the day you see him for who he is: the most courageous man you could ever hope to know._

He turned away from the view of said father and child messing about with sticks in the shallows and walked to a more distant vantage point--a bench not far off. He sat down and took off his useless glasses, bent his head down and pinched the bridge of his nose. The itch behind his eyes was... distracting. 

 

Lost in thought, he lost track of John and the boy. When he refocused his attention, they had moved to the smoking tree to sit and have a snack, but it didn’t seem Hamish was any good at sitting. He would range around John with his fist full of crackers, looking for things on the ground to pick up and pile at his father’s feet. John leaned against the trunk of the tree and alternately watched the little one and let his eyes glaze over into daydream. Most likely, remembering previous times at the park with the boy and the wife. 

He now seemed to have a new fidget, based around the wedding ring--he’d twist it round his finger using the tip of his thumb and the side of his pinky on that hand. Interestingly, it looked vaguely like that stretching thing he used to do with his left hand when he was trying to banish the tremor. But this threatened to become a constant thing. He kept it subtle when it went on longer than a few seconds but the constant motion drew the eye nevertheless. Even at a distance it was visible because his hand was resting on his thigh and the white fingers against the dark blue jeans made a stark contrast. At any rate, the fidget seemed to be connected to memories of his wife.

Watching those fingers flit, mirroring an action that used to cause him to wince, (a reminder of any sort of possible weakness in John was almost physically painful for him, pretty much from the start) he had a fierce rush of anger at the unknown woman, a futile, threatening, protective instinct which would have been worded something like ‘if you didn’t make every day of his life the happiest he’d experienced yet, I will...’ What? Nothing. There was no threat to issue as there was no longer anyone to threaten. If there were, he, of all people, had no right to be issuing any kind of threat around John’s happiness. He was the enemy of John’s happiness. And he had chosen that role voluntarily. 

And yet, even in that distinction, he was not unique. John’s sorrow knew no difference in the deaths in his life. He was sad for having lost two people close to him, not just the one watching him play with his son at that moment. If that person was honest with himself, he would remember he wasn’t even the first person John lost. The man had gone to war after all. He’d lost friends and colleagues before. In fact, he’d lost the man, Hamish. Mish. 

He flattered himself in believing that John had been closer to him than to Mish, but that was just in order to comfort himself on long nights alone in the ‘wilds’ of America or the wastes of Kazakhstan, or the hold of a slow boat to China. He had no idea what those two men had gone through together on tour. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t looked at every file he could find outlining the movements of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers during the years John was in active service. He was a thorough person. And research was a way to calm and distract himself from a problem he couldn’t solve. When he was stuck he would look up and commit to memory something completely unrelated to the current problem and while the forefront of his mind was occupied, the processes in the background would be running through possibilities, forming theories, working out solutions that he could give conscious thought to when feeling refreshed by the break. 

So yes, he had occupied his mind with working out, in as much detail as possible, what John’s term of service had looked like. Yes, he could have asked John back in the day, he would have told him, would have been pleased to recall things for him, but he wasn’t looking for memories, he was looking for facts. And though John may be appreciated for many, many things, his capacity to commit untainted facts to memory, especially ones having to do with his own experience, was virtually nil.   
That makes John a great memoirist, a good blogger even, as those sorts of writing are almost purely made up of thoughts and feelings, impressions of events, not the things themselves. And as much has he griped about how unscientific and sentimental John’s writings of their cases had been, he would never perjure himself by claiming they were anything but very well wrought--for the genre. He would maintain until the day he died that said genre was not the correct avenue to approach his work, but he would concede (only to himself) that it was somewhat flattering to have it used on his life. Especially by someone who paid attention in such detail. All of the wrong details, in his opinion, but nevertheless...

If John knew anything, he knew his (erstwhile) flatmate. Down to the last bat of an eyelash. And by extension, he knew enough about his methods to apply them in his own way. And on things with which his flatmate would never waste time. Still, the good doctor was a perceptive bloke, was the point.

 

Which is why he quietly panicked when he noticed that young Hamish had wandered over to his bench when he was busy looking inward, unprepared to guard against such a situation. 

He was following a half-tame squirrel that was rippling along the edge of the walk, bordering the grass, searching for leavings from earlier folks or a handout from the likes of someone less logical than the man sitting nearby. Hamish had a stick in one hand and a lolly in the other. _John, you are such a fond father it would be laughable if it weren’t so endearing._ The stick was really more of a small branch with the leaves (pin oak, brown, rustly) still attached, and he was waving it like a flag every time he put the lolly in his mouth. 

The squirrel was only mildly concerned about his pursuer, though it startled and shied away when it recognized the proximity in which it would come to the man on the bench, were it to follow its proposed trajectory. Hamish, though he should have been, was not so easily deterred. 

He was mildly shocked by how forward the child was with him. Granted, his interactions with children had been kept to an utter minimum, which, given his lifestyle and lack of acquaintances, let alone friends, ‘minimum’ meant virtually nil. He had never made a study of them because, thankfully, he had only been alerted to a meager handful of cases that had even a passing involvement of a minor. (The reaction of the girl in Moriarty’s kidnapping case was not indicative of most children’s reaction to him, but honestly, it wasn’t that far off the mark.) 

Nevertheless, Hamish seemed to be an atypical example of his age group in his forwardness and personability. In other words, he walked right up to the far end of the bench, scrambled to climb up onto the seat, and plopped himself down with his feet stretching straight out in front of him, waving them back and forth, his stick placed at his side, lolly in hand. This seemingly preternaturally self-possessed child looked over at him, as if pleased to find him on the same bench as himself. Were he able to, one would have expected to hear the phrase, ‘what a stroke of luck’ issue from his little cupid's bow mouth. 

Instead, he said, “Pop?” in a high-pitched, highly questioning voice, the tone sliding dramatically up at the end. 

His interlocutor found himself nodding sagely, even though he wanted to explain to the boy that the query meant nothing to him, not to mention the fact that striking up conversations with strangers, particularly young, single, adult men, was statistically proven to be a bad idea for toddlers. 

The child would have been unconcerned even if he could have understood, of that the man was certain. Gregarious children generally were. Usually to their detriment. The man was so enthralled by the child’s boldness and congenial demeanor, as if he had asked him to meet on that very bench to talk of old times and make new plans, that he’d momentarily forgotten how close John was to their tete a tete. And getting closer. 

Because the moment Hamish made to scale the bench, John had most likely allowed the above mentioned statistics to scroll through his mind and made a move to monitor the all too distant proceedings. He called from a standing position by the tree to Hamish, by name, and told him to “leave the nice man alone, please.”

Hamish looked at his father for only a second before turning back once again. He pointed with his lolly as he said, “Dada.” Then he tilted his head very specifically in his new friend’s direction in order to maintain eye contact while repeating his question. “Pop?” 

He held his lolly out toward the man, who shook his head ‘no’ and shrugged as he registered the fact that John was moving towards them in the periphery. 

The situation was fast becoming unsustainable. Hamish was not to be deterred, however. He would have a confab with this new pal whether he liked it or not. The ‘pal’ keenly felt the desire to not be considered rude (a novel and ridiculous desire though it may have been) but neither did he trust his voice to John’s ears, no matter how much he had trained it to occupy the higher realm of his register. 

He spoke softly as he made to stand up. “I’m sorry, my boy, but I must be off. Take care of your daddy for me, won’t you, young man?” The child also moved to a standing position, on the seat of the bench, but was focused on his friend instead of his footing, and lost his balance over the edge. 

He’d seen it coming and had instinctively shot forward to catch the boy, placing him safely on the ground. “Ooop! Atta boy. There you are. Gotta dash, luv.” He found his hand on the boys head and patting his cheek before he could stop himself, but John was swiftly closing in, the panic of the fall having spurred him. He quickly pulled his cap down over his face until it bumped his glasses and looked down at the ground, affecting extreme shyness.

“Hamish! Are you all right?” John was wearing a striped, collared shirt and a dark blazer, hair slightly longer than normal and combed to the side, the temples greyer than he remembered. He looked tired, but not overwrought. “Thank you so much for catching his fall...”

He didn’t look up. “Of course, you would have done the same for me...”

“Oh, do you have kids, then?”

“No, I...I must go. Sorry.” He fidgeted awkwardly, hoping to be taken for someone with massive social anxiety. 

“Ah--all right, well thanks again. Hamish, say thank you to the nice man.”

“Tank oo! Pop!” He held up his lolly one last time in salute.

He couldn’t help but wave back as he turned away and walked swiftly to the road. Before he got there he turned off and found an out of the way spot to sit and allow his banging heart to return to something resembling a normal pulse before leaving the park completely.


	4. +

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’d been over and over the equation, the pros and cons of the situation, weighing the possibilities of acceptance against those of rejection, and he had never gotten the same answer twice. There were too many variables, and they all had to do with John’s feelings. Which he had never been able to fathom, let alone predict. He’d learned early on that just because something happened ages ago doesn’t mean one wouldn’t still be upset by it. John could conceivably be just as angry tomorrow as he had been in that first month after The Fall. And that would indeed be dangerous to bring upon one’s head. But maybe he would be so eager to have someone to help care for Hamish, that he’d forgive and forget all right away.  
> That brings up the difficult question of whether he could indeed help care for Hamish. The answer of which he had been telling himself since the first sighting was a resounding ‘no’. Until this afternoon.

He’d retreated in disgrace. John probably had thought he was one of those statistically dodgy men. Someone who had no idea how to interact with adults and so sought out children to...Ah, no. He was not pulling up that corner of the mind palace, not in relation to Hamish. That was not an association he needed to have. Not with such a bright, engaging child.

He had been intrigued by the little fellow. No, enthralled was a better term. How do children do that? Command one’s whole attention just by being in one’s presence? Maybe it had to do with the fact that they haven’t learned how to hold back any of themselves yet, and so one rises to meet them with all of oneself. It’s somewhat disturbing when you think about it. Which you necessarily are not doing while with them. 

_How do parents function? How do they have thoughts of their own? Lives of their own?  
Has John lost that autonomy? Can he find distance from his boy enough to maintain his own identity? Or is he slowly going insane, raising that beautiful, fascinating child by himself?_

No wonder he makes time to work on their old cases. It’s something to take his focus, that engages his intellect, exercises his writing skills. It also keeps him focused on the past, however. A possibly painful process, given the loss inherent in those memories.

Few things in John’s life are not filled with loss, though. Hamish, just the fact of his existence, must be a daily reminder of another great loss he sustained. If he was willing to marry and have a child with that woman, she must have been worthy. Therefore the loss must also have been painful. 

He had to admit to himself that he was putting off the moment of reunion, partially because he was afraid it would cause John more pain. However, if he was repeatedly going back to the times when they were solving cases together in his precious free time, maybe the reinstatement of that pastime once he’d returned could bring some sort of happiness to John again. He himself had felt like their time together as “Hatman and Robin” had been both fruitful and satisfying. He would venture to say that it was the most contented he had been. Possibly ever. He might even be willing to tell John that if it were ever relevant.

The point was, if the pain of dealing with his return, reliving the loss and forgiving the deception, was less than the pleasure of getting to work (and possibly live?) together again, then he should reveal himself. If, however, the friction that would inevitably be caused by adding someone new to into the father/son household, and the incompatibility of the crime solving lifestyle with that of fatherhood, was more problematic than the loss involved with believing your best friend to be dead and never seeing him again...well, then he would just have to figure out how to move on. How to live without John. 

Fully become James Trevor, armchair detective. Because if John couldn’t handle Sherlock Holmes coming back, then it was impossible for Greg Lestrade to be apprised of his status as ‘very much not dead’, which meant the consulting detective could be no more. At least, not in London. And could he stand to be anywhere else? He had seen practically everywhere else in the past three years and the jury was still out. Mostly because nowhere else had the trump card: a certain outstanding blogger, partner, housemate and friend who made life and how he wanted to live it so much easier and more enjoyable. 

He’d been over and over the equation, the pros and cons of the situation, weighing the possibilities of acceptance against those of rejection, and he had never gotten the same answer twice. There were too many variables, and they all had to do with John’s feelings. Which he had never been able to fathom, let alone predict. He’d learned early on that just because something happened ages ago doesn’t mean one wouldn’t still be upset by it. John could conceivably be just as angry tomorrow as he had been in that first month after The Fall. And that would indeed be dangerous to bring upon one’s head. But maybe he would be so eager to have someone to help care for Hamish, that he’d forgive and forget all right away.

That brings up the difficult question of whether he could indeed help care for Hamish. The answer of which he had been telling himself since the first sighting was a resounding ‘no’. Until this afternoon. 

Charmed. He’d been charmed by the boy. But charms don’t last long. Was that engagement he’d felt something that could carry him through the horrible bouts of boredom and depression he suffered between cases? Would bearing responsibility toward the child outweigh even the most minor yet intriguing case? Three years ago he would have not entertained the thought for a moment. But after spending such extended time as James Trevor, he had started to see the draw of being a ‘normal’ person, leading a ‘normal’ life. He had learned to be personable, thoughtful, polite, even kind. It seemed there were ways of being that took others into account in a way that was somewhat self-sacrificing, but on some level worth it. 

Granted, all of these ways of functioning had taken a toll on him, in no small measure. He was no longer as quick, as sharp, as fearless. But other things had started to matter besides being right. Such as being good. Odd that this learning process had occurred away from the man who had patterned this behaviour so perfectly, and was at a time when he himself needed to be more ruthless and cruel to his adversaries than ever before. But that was the enigma that was James Trevor, a duality that existed for a certain period of time in order for him to function better on each level. He was now a better man, and a better crime solver than he had ever expected to be. But he wasn’t sure he could continue to maintain both sides of the coin, and if he were made to choose, he would not be a good fit as a co-parent.

Because he would never give up the latter identity for the former, he knew that. Being back in London had reminded him of what he had been able to accomplish before, and in such a short time. It gave him the taste for more of the same, the adventure, the intellectual daring, the feats of strength and will. He wanted that life again. But he wanted it with John. The idea of setting up a consulting business in Mumbai, Jakarta, or Shanghai, even New York, was disheartening. Depressing. Unimaginable. Yes, he was being a spoiled brat about this. Yes he was being selfish. No, he didn’t care. 

He wanted his life back. He wanted his job, his friend, and his name. And yet there was this little person that didn’t fit into that schema. And there was no way around him. It was a problem that no amount of nicotine patches could help provide a solution. And it hath made him mad, trying to come up with one. 

Having John in his life meant having Hamish. Having Hamish was in direct opposition to running a consulting business. Running a consulting business was half of why he wanted to have John in his life. It was an impossible situation. 

Without thinking his legs had taken him back to Baker Street, where he’d automatically climbed the fire escape and sat outside the window of his old room. His thoughts had just then been interrupted by the sound of the street door closing, so he sprung up and climbed to the roof in order to pace. 

_You know, this whole thought process is moot if 1) John doesn’t want you in his life, or 2) John doesn’t want you in Hamish’s life, which is effectively also #1. And if he has even half a brain in his head, which you know to be true, he will go with #2._

Because ‘charmed’ is not effectual. It’s not experienced or capable or understanding or even willing. He has no right being around the boy, as he most likely will be completely unable to aid in his survival. Were he to attempt it, the child would very likely not see four. 

_Bugger. There was no right answer. The child makes everything nine times more complicated. God Dammit._


	5. C

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was without his disguise. Well, not really. He was always in disguise these days, he was his disguise. Sherlock Holmes didn’t exist except in the memories of a very few people, the mind (and perhaps the heart) of one ex-army doctor, as well as a periodic nuisance his brother didn’t acknowledge.
> 
> James Trevor, however, being in London, in the flesh, was without his cap and glasses, which made his resemblance to the erstwhile Sherlock Holmes much more apparent, and, at this moment, a distinct liability. 
> 
> Because they were both in the same bloody tea shop. One with only six tables. One where anonymity was virtually impossible. He’d only stopped in there for a moment after spending time at the British Museum, but the service was so bad he had been held up waiting for his order. He hadn’t worried, being in a different neighborhood and all, but of all the tea shops in all the world... Odds don’t count when things as important as this are to be avoided. He really should have known better.

_Oh For God’s sake. I was simply trying to get a cuppa. And there they are. I should have known better._

He was without his disguise. Well, not really. He was always in disguise these days, he _was_ his disguise. Sherlock Holmes didn’t exist except in the memories of a very few people, the mind (and perhaps the heart) of one ex-army doctor, as well as a periodic nuisance his brother didn’t acknowledge.

James Trevor, however, being in London, in the flesh, was without his cap and glasses, which made his resemblance to the erstwhile Sherlock Holmes much more apparent, and, at this moment, a distinct liability. 

For days he’d been planning the perfect way to get in contact with John. He’d taken a while to decide whether a phone call beforehand was best, instead of just showing up on his doorstep. He’d figured that would be the easiest way, to allow the anger and/or disbelief to take the form of hanging up on him instead of possibly punching his lights out. Then when the curiosity and/or care took over, he could be waiting outside. That was the best scenario he could come up with to respect John’s emotions. He was only unsure about whether to bring flowers, beer, or a toy for Hamish.

But then they were both in the same bloody tea shop. One with only six tables. One where anonymity was virtually impossible. He’d only stopped in there for a moment after spending time at the British Museum, but the service was so bad he had been held up waiting for his order. He hadn’t worried, being in a different neighborhood and all, but of all the tea shops in all the world... Odds don’t count when things as important as this are to be avoided. He really should have known better.

And of course they were sat at the table right by the door. In the window. Slim odds that they might be looking out it when he passed, but a possibility nonetheless. _If I'm quick before they get settled, maybe..._ He threw a couple of quid down on the table and grabbed his paper cup, and his newspaper. John was fiddling with the stroller and Hamish was climbing up into a chair and clamoring for a sweet. 

He swiftly made for the door, but reached their table just as the lock on the stroller slipped and the front wheels fell into his path. He was slightly tripped up by them, dribbling his tea on his shoes, but regained his footing and had his hand on the door by the time John swore, looked up, and apologised profusely. He unthinkingly made eye contact and John’s face opened up in recognition. Everything went into blind panic mode for a second, and in that second he blurted out, “Not here, John. I can explain later...” and swept out the door. As it closed behind him, he heard John’s astonished voice call out. “Oi! You’re from the park. How did you know my name?” 

_Shit shit shit! He didn’t recognise Sherlock, he recognised awkward James! Bloody buggering hell!_

He heard the door chime open and John’s voice carry down the street. “Hey, you! Come back here! Either I’m going insane or you...bugger. _Sherlock!_ ” 

He flinched. He ducked his head as if fending off a blow. He turned his collar up. He heard footsteps behind him. “You fucking bastard and your bloody cheek bones. Turn around and look at me!” 

He slowed his pace slightly. He heard the door open again. “No, Hamish honey, it’s all right. Stay inside. Daddy will be right back. No, everything is okay. Hang on just a moment. _Hang on, just a moment! Sherlock, please!_ ” 

John’s voice was desperate. Breaking. His own mouth and throat felt like they were crumbling to ash. “I’m not insane, you’re just a bloody _prick!_ ” 

People on the street were starting to stare. His chest had imploded. He stopped still at the corner. He did not turn around. Fast footsteps caught up with him. “Turn around.” 

He couldn’t. “Turn around and look at me, you bleeding arsehole. I’ve left my son in a tea shop full of strangers. Turn a-fucking-round.” 

He did. Then he looked up. And watched John’s face rise and fall--the mouth open soundlessly, then get covered with a hand, the eyes pop wide, then fill, then lower. “I...can’t...You can’t. How...?”

“I’m sorry, John. This is not how it was supposed to happen.”

“Did you just start over in a new flat? Were you that glad to be rid of me? What have you been doing for the past...” He took a deep breath. “No, you know what? Fuck you. Never mind. I don’t want to know. Go ahead. Have a nice life. I’m sorry I bothered you. I’m sorry I recognised you.”

“No. No, John. _No!_ It’s not what you think. Please! Let me explain.”

“No, it’s exactly what I think. No matter what you have to say, you left me. And now I have to go. My son...Hamish needs me. Do you even...? Fuck _you_. That was you the other day in the park. Stalking us. Talking to him...I could crush your skull right now.” His hands were fists. It was evident that he could carry out his threat. 

Sherlock moved to...he didn’t know what. He wanted to comfort John and get out of his reach at the same time. He ended up just stepping sideways awkwardly and almost tripped on his own feet. John stared. 

“John. I can’t...please. Go get Hamish. If you can sit still, have tea. If not, take him for a walk. Either way, I’ll be nearby. When you feel less like you want to punch me in the face, I’d like to talk to you. I have so much to tell you.” 

“I don’t want to hear any of it. But don’t you dare go anywhere. Stay in that exact spot. I’m not joking. Do not move.” He looked like he was training an attack dog. Sternly, and a bit fearfully. 

And then he turned and ran. Back to the tea shop to collect Hamish. It took longer than Sherlock wanted it to, but they soon emerged, Hamish in the stroller with a biscuit, John with his jaw clenched tight and his brow furrowed stormily. He looked more like an army captain than Sherlock had ever seen him. Including when he pulled rank at Baskerville. As they came up level with him, John barked out a command. “Fall in. And don’t say a word. Not until I say so. Understood?”

“Yes sir.” He wanted to smirk at the situation, but he found he couldn’t. Yes, it was absurd, but it was also the only option for him to mend the obvious rift between them. It was his one chance to convince John that he wasn’t what he thought he was. That he had done everything for _him_. That he’d never wanted to leave and now he desperately wanted to come back. And so, he did fall in, a half step behind John. And though he had a million things lined up to say, (well, 84 at the moment) he remained silent. Which was something. 

“I have never been so furious in my entire life, Sherlock. Never. I...nope. huh-uh.” He seemed unable to continue speaking.   
He believed John’s claim about his anger, he had certainly never seen him in this state before. It was disconcerting. But it wasn’t John’s anger that upset him, it was his inability to contain it. John had been plenty angry before--righteously, indignantly, fearfully, jealously, impotently, dangerously, dead quietly, but never uncontrollably. 

It was because there was something else mixed in. _Ah, yes. Sadness_. He had seen John cry once before and it had left something lodged deep inside him, something that, were he inclined to examine his motives, he might see as the thing that had eaten away at him for the past three years, five months, and three weeks, the acid burn spurring him on in his mission, as he endeavored to return before the hole it made had engulfed his guts entire. 

Watching John attempt to master his emotions in front of him, his son, and the world at large made that chemical burn in him ignite. Because John was failing at his task. And John doesn’t fail at things. Unless they are _his_ fault, clearly. Which this whole thing was.

_No, it was Moriarty’s fault. If he didn’t exist, our life -- lives -- wouldn’t be like this. But if I had been smarter, quicker, better, I could have ended the game before that final move, the checkmate that had gotten us to this moment._

He wasn't at the top of his game this time either. This had been the wrong move. Even if it had been thrust upon him today, he could have evaded it if he’d really wanted to protect John from this pain. He could have gone to Chicago, Paris, Beirut, Fiji, Rio...he could have left well enough alone. But nothing for the past three years (and change) had been well enough, because he had been alone. _Selfish, James. Look at him. He is in pain. This was not the goal. Your imagination was insufficient to come up with the absolute worst case scenario. Because the idea of John being bloodily murdered a day before you arrived and then you being framed for it wasn’t half as awful as watching this. Look at his face._

It was painful for him to do so, but he did it. John was glassy-eyed and tight-lipped, his face red from holding in his, something--breath, ire, accusations, sobs (not sobs, not John)--whatever it was, there was no way to tell. He looked at his one friend struggling mightily, and had no words with which to apologise.


	6. =

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sherlock, Hamish is not a problem.”  
> “No, he's not. He is a delight. But adding a child into the equation is a problem I haven't solved yet.” John rolled his eyes. “Yet, John. I'm working on it.”  
> “The equation is established, Sherlock, without you in it. You are the new variable. Figure out how to work yourself into it, and we can talk.”

“He’s a marvelous boy, John. Smart, engaging, well-mannered, caring, beautiful.” They had been silent for at least five minutes and John’s breath was finally steady even if his gait was still fast and military.

“He looks like his mother.”

“Maybe so, but he takes after his Father.”

He took in a sharp breath. “You flatter me because you know I’m angry.”

“I have assessed the facts, which required very little deduction.”

“You know nothing about my son, Sherlock. You weren't there. For three years you haven't been there. For him, for me... You—”

“I didn't even know he existed until a few days ago.”

“Exactly.”

“I don't understand.”

“You can't. You never will. I spent so much time angry with you, thinking of how suicide is the most selfish action. It leaves so many behind searching for meaning to a senseless act.”

“Not that many.” He said it under his breath and was shocked at the volume of John's response.

“ _Enough_ , Sherlock! The number of pints Greg and I went through trying to understand is rivaled only by the number of theories we floated. And don't even get me started on the number of tearful cups of tea Mrs. Hudson has felt the need to share with me. Molly can't even look at me, presumably because I remind her of you and it's too painful. What you lacked in number of grievers, you made up for in the depth of their grief. And you weren't even _dead!_ Which is _ten times_ more selfish!”

“Molly knew.”

“ _What??_ ”

“She knew, she helped me fake it. She mocked up the post mortem, she found a body for the casket. She was invaluable.”

“She looked me in the eye and let me grieve for you, and she _knew?_ ”

“Not the former, by your own admission, and the latter only at my command. It made her so upset she stopped answering my letters quite some time ago. I'd hoped that when she learned you'd forgiven me, she might find it in her heart to do so as well.”

A hard laugh escaped his lips. “You think I'm going to forgive you?”

“There is nothing in this world I want more. It's the only thing I hope for. But I don't presume...”

“You'd better not. It's going to take a lot for me to get to that point.”

“Anything you need. Time, explanation, penance, babysitting...”

“ _Ha!_ ”

“Pop? Wock?” Hamish had finished his biscuit and wanted to join in the conversation. “Dada...hawa dali pa onen, Wock?”

John nodded at the nonsense, even though that’s clearly what it was so him as well. “Yes, hon. This is Sherlock. Give Daddy a minute to talk with him and then we can have a proper introduction and you can play with him.” John turned back and dropped his voice to his normal register. “Hopefully he will babble to himself for a bit and then the sugar crash will knock him out so we can talk without interruption.”

“I don’t mind.”

“You don’t? I always thought you hated children.”

“Many of them I find distasteful, and many of them don’t like me. Hamish falls outside of both of those rings on the Venn diagram. Very few do, but luckily he is one of them.”

“Luckily?”

“Well, it’s not luck, really. Obviously he is going to share traits with you, so he has that advantage. And it seems I have come highly recommended, if he can recognise my name, and, I have reason to believe, my face.”

“Yeah.” John looked down at his feet. “There is a picture of you--of us--on the wall of my study.”

“The first photo the Telegraph published.”

“Yes. Wait...that wasn’t a deduction, you’ve been to the flat.”

“Yes. I stopped by and peeked in to see how it’s holdin--”

“Dada! buds! Dada, Popwock! buds buds!”

“Ha. He loves birds. Even the ratty ones. Is it all right if we...?” He motioned to the congregation of pigeons in the nearby square.

“By all means, but you must introduce me properly first.”

“No. Let him frighten the birds away first, then he will pay attention. Come here, love.” John had pushed the stroller into the square, but several yards from the flock of pigeons. He crouched down and unhooked Hamish from the stroller, lifting him out and setting him on his feet between his own knees. He leaned his face down to Hamish's ear and whispered to him about the birds for a moment, both of them watching the flock peck at the ground and drink from puddles. Then he nudged Hamish forward, patted his bum, and stood up to watch.

Hamish glanced back and then put all his focus on the birds. He started trotting towards them and a few of them fluttered their wings and hopped away. That's when Hamish broke into a run and screamed. “Hi buds! Hi-i!! Hi Buuuuds!! Woooo!” He raced straight towards them, arms flailing, and in a wave, they took off into the air, some of them landing a couple yards away and subsequently flapping up into the air again. He didn't stop until all of them were wheeling in the air, headed for higher ground, many of them landing on the statue nearby.

John's face had lightened considerably. A small chuckle escaped him. “Come back now, dearie! You got them good. Come here to Daddy and Sherlock.” Hamish stood still, his back to them, staring at the birds. John glanced back, his face slightly apologetic.

“Hamish...? Come take my hand, young man. I'd like to introduce myself.” He attempted to keep his voice mild, pleasant even, but not to be disobeyed.

He must have succeeded, because Hamish turned on his heel and made straight for them, passing his father without a glance and tilting his head a bit to the side as he stepped up, his hands clasped in front of him.

A minute smirk creased his face as he unclasped the hands he'd kept behind his back and crouched down to Hamish's level. 

“Hello there, son. I know you already know my name, but it's one I haven't used in some time, so I'd like the opportunity to say it to you. To reinstate it as my own with this meeting, if you will allow it.” Hamish let his hands go and swung them back and forth, brushing his thighs as they passed. He didn't turn away, however. And he accepted the hand proffered him, which engulfed his so completely he seemed to marvel at its size. “Hamish Watson, My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my distinct pleasure to meet you.”

“Say hello to Sherlock, Hamish.”

Hamish took his hand back and clasped both under his chin, then brushed his cheek against his shoulder, looking incredibly shy for a moment. Then he rushed in between Sherlock's knees and pressed himself against the man's chest, his arms pinned between them.

He almost lost his balance, but put one hand to the ground to steady himself as the other arm looped instinctively around the boy, more to keep him safe and upright than to hug him. But Hamish took the gesture as a cuddly one. He rubbed his face in Sherlock's jumper and nestled there with a sigh. He would have climbed into a lap, were one available, it seemed.

“Home? Dada? Surrock? Home?”

He was speechless, looking up to John as openly and inquisitively as Hamish was.

John was focused completely on his child. “Yes, my love. Yes. Yes, of course.” He took Hamish from Sherlock's arms, kissed his head, gave him a sippy cup full of milk and strapped him back into the stroller, which he turned toward home. Hamish drank deeply and then proceeded to fall into deep sleep.

The interlude with Hamish had calmed John down considerably. Amazing what being needed does to him. However, once the boy was completely zonked out, John turned to him ready for an interrogation.

“All right. Let's start with an explanation. Penance will come later.” His stern look was underlined by a hard half-grin. “You said you have things to tell me. Start with why and how you died. Or didn't, for that matter.”

“Wasn't the why obvious? Moriarty had threatened the lives of those most important to me. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and you, John. He had assassins ready to kill each of you if I didn't jump off St. Bart's. Even after he killed himself, their orders remained firm. Especially then. And so I had to do it. And it would only be effective if I was actually believed to be dead. That was the only way to get Moriarty’s men off our backs. They were watching you. And Greg. And Baker Street. If any of you were to give away my 'not dead' status, all would be lost. Therefore I couldn't risk letting any of you know. Not until I'd had time to eradicate the threat.”

“But three bloody years, Sherlock? It took that long??”

“Yes. It's a truly global network, Moriarty had set up. With hundreds of operatives and hundreds more associates. I've been remarkably busy.”

“Doing what? Tell me what your three years were like.”

“Incredibly dull. Though rarely boring. I travelled around the world, twice, literally, then bounced around some more, all in the service of dismantling and demolishing the entirety of Moriarty’s massive web of a crime syndicate. It took much longer than I’d have liked, but less time than even Mycroft could have guessed.”

“So he knew as well?”

“Yes. Of course. He has managed my money. And my security. Which helped maintain my anonymity.”

“You mentioned having another name...”

“James Trevor.” He couldn't help but grin slightly at the reveal and what it did to John's face.

“Ah. Of course. The mysterious relative. I should have known.”

“I wondered if you didn't wonder...”

“I indulged in many fictions over the years, but never once thought of them as anything but that. There was a time I wanted to meet him—you—if only to see how like you he was. I would have been shocked at the similarity, it seems.”

He chuckled. “I would have welcomed the meeting, if I didn't believe it would have put us both in danger. James was not an airtight alias as it was, and had he known you, that would have put yet another link in the chain between Sherlock and himself. I was playing a difficult game. Even with Moriarty gone, there were measures in place to effectively run as tight a ship as if he'd never left. They would have found me. In fact, there were multiple times when they were hot on my trail. I managed to elude them simply by being ruthless in my unpredictability, and unpredictable in my ruthlessness.”

John's eyebrows reached his hairline. “Ah.”

“Yes. Your Browning and your marksmanship would have been useful on multiple occasions. Many is the time I wished for both to come to my aid. But those are stories for another time. Suffice to say I have succeeded in my mission. I came back home less than a week ago, meaning to find new digs in a different part of town, but I couldn’t help stopping by Baker Street. I’d assumed--I’d hoped--you had moved on with your life, but I hadn’t anticipated your...current situation.”

“Not something you could deduce, then?” John's voice sounded carefully controlled. He ignored the slight dig.

“Not without at least some data. Mycroft would give me none. Which in retrospect was for the best. Damn him.”

John's mouth was a hard smirk. “So, you didn't even know about Mary.”

“No. Not until I saw evidence of her in our--your--flat.”

“It's a shame you never got to know her, because you might have actually liked her.”

“I can only hope that would have been so.”

“She came to like you quite a bit, I think.”

“Oh?”

“Well, I talked about you an awful lot...”

“You did? Interesting.”

“Don't sound so shocked, you git. When I met her, I was grieving the loss of my very best friend, with whom I had shared some of the best times, and the most exciting events, of my life. And of whom I thought very highly...” He left off speaking and shook his head.

“I've missed you terribly, you know.”

“Don't start, Sherlock. Of course I missed you too. But I thought I'd never see you again. And now you are here in front of me, and _she_...” More head shaking.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, John.”

“Yeah...” John’s voice was full and scratched at the end. Then it came out as just a whisper. “Thanks.”

“Losses. I’m sorry for the one I caused and the one I couldn’t comfort you over. I’m sorry for deceiving you for so long, but please know that it was painful for me to do so.”

“Sure, but you knew it was going to end, Sherlock. I didn't. And I was devastated.”

“I know. I'm sorry. But whatever my motives, they weren't selfish. And I promise it wasn't that much easier knowing the separation wouldn't last forever. Besides, haven't you figured out yet that it was your grief that kept us both alive?”

“I...oh. Bugger.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “Well, you are fucking welcome, then. Glad to have been of service.”

“It was a vital role, John. I'm sick over the fact that it had to be non-consensual in nature, but it succeeded, clearly.”

“So because I was made to grieve you so completely--which gave you the best alibi imaginable--you are now alive for me to learn how to take it all back and figure out how to have you in my life again?” His voice was mockingly hard.

“If you are amenable to my presence in it, I would love nothing more than to be there. Here. With you.”

“With both of us?” He looked pointedly down at the small sleeping form in front of him.

“Well, I've been working on that problem...”

“Sherlock, Hamish is not a problem.”

“No, he's not. He is a delight. But adding a child into the equation is a problem I haven't solved yet.” John rolled his eyes. “ _Yet_ , John. I'm working on it.”

“The equation is established, Sherlock, without you in it. You are the new variable. Figure out how to work yourself into it, and we can talk.”

“I've been collecting the data already.”

“Is that why you've been following us?”

“Not today, I wasn't today. This meeting was a complete accident. But the other day at the park, yes. I meant to keep my distance, but Hamish came up to me. He is an intriguing fellow. And seeing you as a father, I—You're so good at it, John.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I'm not. I mean, I am, but I shouldn't have been. It's an obvious deduction I never thought to make.”

“I was a husband too, you know.”

“I know. I know.”

“I was good at that, as well.”

“Of course you were. How could you not be?”

John shook his head once again, as if throwing off those words. Or the ones he wouldn't say. Or the past three years of anger and pain. Or something else. “Jesus, Sherlock. Where have you _been?_ ”

“I came back as quickly as I could.”

“You were too late. Too late by a long shot. I moved on and found love and lost it again. And amidst all that I was given a precious gift. I was given a purpose in the job of raising someone as lovely as Hamish. And it's meant a lot to me to learn I’m remarkably good at it. I won’t go back to the crime solving life with you. I have better things to do.”

His eyes narrowed in a subtle wince. “They can't be easy to do alone...”

“No, they're not. Thank God for Mrs. Hudson.”

“What if you had someone to share them with?”

“I would love to find someone again. I don't know if I'm ready to start dating...”

“Oh. Right. Well, hopefully someone will become apparent.”

“Yes. That's what I need. Someone willing to become a parent. A co-parent.”

“Of course.” The words came out rough. His voice wasn't cooperating any more. He cleared his throat.

“Well, here we are, good old 221b. You coming up?”

“Ah, no. I don't think so. Maybe another time.”

“Well, where are you staying?”

“Around...”

“You don't have a place, do you? Come on. You can have the study. I've taken over your old room, sorry.”

“Not worthy of apology, clearly. I was gone.”

“But not for good, apparently...”

“I'm sorry I couldn't write.”

“Stop. Are you coming up or not?” That subtly exasperated tone was back. It almost felt good to hear it, it was so familiar.

“...no. Not now. I have a few things to take care of. Don't latch the window?”

“Good grief. Yes, fine. Mornings are early these days though. So if you want fresh coffee, be prepared to emerge around 6:30.”

“I'll see what I'm capable of.”

John smiled at that. Something very close to an actual, genuine, not-holding-something-back smile. It was all he could do to not stare with a goofy grin of his own plastered across his face.

“I suppose we will. Don't go and get yourself killed, now you are alive again.”

“No fear of that.”

“Heh. Right.” John unlocked the door and then held it open while pushing the stroller through. He was adept at the manoeuvre. Somehow seeing it tugged hard at something in Sherlock's chest. 

He turned around against it, and walked off, with absolutely nowhere to go and nothing to do.

Except think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for your interest, folks.
> 
> i hope to continue writing in this universe soon, though i'm sorry to say i haven't even got a wip going at the moment.
> 
> just know that i do want to figure out how to get the 'parent' into parentlock.
> 
> if SH weren't so cagey about everything...
> 
> anyway, more to come someday, to put a balm on the ending feels. 
> 
> (i've got them too, i promise.)


End file.
